


Seven Devils

by potatoesarenotforsex



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), Video Blogging & YouTube RPF
Genre: Dark, Dubious Consent, M/M, Prose Poem, Seven Deadly Sins, Sins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:39:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potatoesarenotforsex/pseuds/potatoesarenotforsex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sin is a matter of opinion. Sin is only sin if you're hurting other people. There are seven of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lust

**Author's Note:**

> "Lust's passion will be served; it demands, it militates, it tyrannizes."  
> \- Marquis de Sade

 

He haunts my every waking thought, my sleepless nightmares.

They will, no doubt, call him the victim, and paint me lecherous and ugly, strewn in wide, gauche strokes- as is the fashion. With a body so perverse, so lavished in intention and conviction, he summons my attention mercilessly, and I answer to its call.

The stench of alcohol and arousal shrouds our faces, steaming any vision left, until his lips disappear beneath mine and then they, too, are concealed. His name is futile, as are his gentle protests, softened by the dulling curtain of intoxication. Behind lazy lids, blue eyes stare in almost wonder, curiously terrified, more so than he'd ever wish to admit to. He obeys my gnarled and wretched hands, indulging my beckoning and twisting his cool and guiltless fingers between mine, a marriage of malfeasance.

I am no lover. A lover's hand is gentle and persuasive, slowly ebbing the senses to a point of submission; the pretense of such kindness has no place against the rank alleyway bricks and cobblestoned mattresses.

My lips are hot and relentless against his pulse, nipping the pale skin a little too hard, my thigh between his legs a little to forceful. His cry spills from between those swollen, precious lips, dancing out into the night's air and falling somewhere between pleasure and pain. Desire impales me, it's spike ardent and serpentine behind my ears, hissing hedonistically as I rip off the shirt, ravage the skin, leave my mark along every rib he dares still own.

The whispers in my ears, that's what I'll say, they're the ones who guide my hand, wrapping firm around him, taking what was never mine. This time, his cries do not ignite me so, with fingers firmly wrapped across his lips, I determine my pleasure too urgent to satisfy with puerile play.

The chill is bitingly cold but I am heated by my yearning. One hand holding his up high, the other cinched around his hips, holding him still against the barrage of my hips against his. My fingers melt into his butter skin, clinging to the bone and sinuous ligament which holds a body together, gives it form and function. Too hard, they press almost daring the fragile skin to give way beneath them, to succumb in overwhelming compliance to my every wish.

He cries out again, pathetic and lost between the crumbling bricks, tears staining the red and grubby walls. The fear and pain is not lost on me. This is my domain now, punishing and prophetic to us both, to indulge in the pleasure of mystery, of playthings.

When I leave him there, a shattered mess on the floor, sobbing and pleading, he'll call out to me- my name, twisting through the growing space between us- how does he know my name?

The satisfaction of possession throbbing through every vein, I offer no reply- as my boots crunch noisily into the autumn leaves, as I walk away into the night.

 


	2. Gluttony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Curiosity is gluttony. To see is to devour." Les Misèrables; Victor Hugo

I can sense it instant that I see you; I can taste the resignation on my full and swollen lips. It's stench is nauseatingly sweet, a sticky salve that coats my lips and leaves them glistening. It fills the air, so thick and dense even my hands dissolve into nothingness before my eyes.

My fervent fingers fly over the keys with a mind of their own, gliding from one page to the next. I must know more of you, so much more than the contents of those chosen, few words you've already disclosed to me, and to the world. They are pitiful scraps beside a feast. You are a spark that I never doubted, yet never expected to burn so brightly. Never let it be said I dislike surprises.

It's something that I find your false innocence. Forgive me for my candor, because it would not do for you to assume that I criticize or condemn. I say this fully understanding the implications of my presumption- you are not false, nor are you innocent, but what you are is new, different. You're somewhere stuck jauntily between their amalgamations, grinning out at me between the rubble, slightly more tarnished than the others; that's where I find you.

I often wonder what you saw in me. Sometimes the cold gin whispers to me, slithers into my ear where no on else can see it and injects the nightmares deep into the soft skin it finds there, hissing- _flip the tables_. And in those early hours, when the world is waking and I am tumbling off into restless slumber, I tell myself that it was you who found me, but we both know that cannot be true.

You call to me and ask me for counsel, which I most gladly give. You come to me and inquire for friendship, for shared words and desires- which I most gladly give. You heed my word, my guidance, without a glance reserved for well-deserved fear. I like that about you, and I almost feel obliged to share my gratitude, but there's something stopping me. Every time we speak, with every portion you serve me, my hunger only grows.

My thumbs itch against the keyboard, twitching with a desire to bury deep into your skin, find out if your insides taste as sweet as your simpering smile. Your skin is soft, or it appears soft from what I can see. It would not even deign the use of a sharpened blade. Those primitive weapons are hardly special enough for you- my raw and uncut nail shall suffice.

I do hope you'll scream, but not too much. Did you know that music does, in fact, greatly aid digestion? I'll wager that you didn't, still lost in the screaming world of teen rebellion. Literature suggests that digestion is best served with music which stimulates the parasympathetic nervous system. So if you would, Daniel Howell, scream for me, just a little.

Despite the pixels and the miles between us, I can taste you on my lips. A spilt tongue could dart between them, sample the drops left in your wake. You're most delectable I'm sure, and ever so eager to assent.

Do you know how sweet you taste, little boy?

I'm so _very_ hungry.


	3. Wrath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Come not between the dragon and his wrath."  
> King Lear (1.1.123) William Shakespeare

Between the shy caresses of your hand,

My condemnation runs so cool and slick,

Do you see them? A little longer than

Your middle finger; roped, coiling and thick.

They scar the inner lining of my heart,

Embossed in scrawling letters on my soul,

In blackened ink, like smog too think to part-

Remember; anger always takes it's toll.

The ever-shortened breaths may wrack my lungs

Asphyxiating, blue flames lick my face,

But I have with me still what burnt my tongue-

Those years ago, ire's comforting embrace.

Wrath make me strong, red anger fuel my death,

A soulless soul, alone, it's final breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sonnet, just to mix things up?


	4. Sloth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Slothful do not have the time to become virtuous or despicable." Henry David Thoreau.

It is a dangerous life, to believe in nothing. The nights pass through like a shadow and the days gleam across my eyes, reflections and echoes undistinguishable from their makers. Tangibility and realism are as obvious as your anticipation for the night to arrive, but the visceral proof of existence and actuality have never been enough to inconvenience me into trusting. You have your text messages and your hair to iron, your buttons to close, your laces to tie. I have no need, no desire, no innovation. It's safe because it is docile but, as I watch you, it's apparent that it is dangerous too- because it is nothing.

It is a dull life, to never seeks knowing anything. Knowledge is power, fascination and it comes with a price. Ignorance can be willful; if you close your eyes, it's just as easy as falling asleep. The couch has such a generous embrace that the cold edges of the laptop or the cool sadness of your words fail to stir any of the response that they once would. I am wholly mindful of the fact that I could reach across the yielding keys and form the words or questions just as easily as I could watch your arm and see the bruises and the marks, but neither appeals to me, and so I don't.

It is a secluded life, to interfere with nothing. There is a thick wall surrounding my mind, I am not blinded, merely distanced. The tendrils of tenacious details curl their way through the crystals of glass, informing me in great detail of your unwept tears, waiting in the corners of your eyes, every syllable of his harsh words, biting across the air between you, of the way your knees buckle and give way, the precise timing of his final insult as the door slams shut and how it's only after that that you'll allow yourself to cry, hot tears burning down your cheeks. Everything about you screams of your desire to be held and comforted, and I can see it all behind my walls, watching with mild interest until my attention is taken elsewhere.

It is a tedious life, to enjoy nothing. And goodness knows you've tried. It doesn't bother me at all; the efforts you go to are surely admirable and generous- trips into town and horror movies, imaginative milkshakes and an endless stream of enthusiastic friends. I sometimes wonder how it is that I am yet to find you frustrating and irritating, but perhaps it is fortunate for both of us that I've never had the time to see you that way. I can see that, gradually, methodically, your pleasure fades with mine, but there is no satisfaction to be found in that either. Were I more sadistic, I could enjoy your demise, the steady dullness forming in your eyes and the firm decline of your angular smile, but perhaps it is unfortunate for both of us that I am not.

It is a lonely life, to love no one. Sometimes when I wake, too early to call it morning, too late for anything but rest, I wonder what it might feel like to sleep in a warm bed. Perhaps it would disturb the entire process, leaving two restless, overheating bodies too exhausted to argue but too incensed to rest. Perhaps it would fit, as they say, like a glove- but I can't say I could ever be bothered with all those individual fingers. Perhaps you'd stop calling out for him. But I could never be bothered to reach down and adjust the covers and so you comfort yourself with multiplying mugs of warmed milk and I eventually fall back into the inevitable, tremulous dreams.

It is a numbing life, to hates nothing. It might be the easiest to mimic, with screwed up fists and violent eyes, stabbing straight through the helpless target of their abhorrence. Hatred is as natural to us as seeing; we observe difference, then we designate our titles and our assumptions follow in a steady flow until they could the retinas and we can no longer differentiate between vision and judgment. Without it, my world is sepia and monotonous; the fire reserved for someone more deserving with better use for it. I am left with hyper-efficient sponges for eyes, that ensure my retinas remain dry and unscarred.

It is a futile life, to never find purpose in anything. There's a dark square defying the thick film of dust coating our window ledge that I should really fix. The cactus died three weeks before you did, but I think it had been a good few months before that where both of us had failed to water it. Cacti are bred for endurance; but humans are bred for flaws. It was a flaw to fall in love with me. Why would I ever fight for you when I can't find the strength to battle for my own survival?

It is a deadened life, to live for nothing. The days bleed together in a streaming mess of emotions, thoughts and actions happening to other people, with their futile ambitions dreams. The cacophony is deafening, simply wading through their shambolic subsistence would be enough to drive you mad- if you were foolish enough to look where you placed each step. There are those who crush, those who plant, those who burn and those who nurture, and then there is me. Do not assume that I am grand enough to believe that my life means anything when we both know it doesn't.

Neither did yours.

Sometimes I wonder if I envy those who care- who find a way, or a way out. At least you, despite all your hurt, have found a purpose. You have suffering, you have sadness and they have so very much pain. I am not sure if I envy you, if I admire you or if I wish I could be like you.

I only remain alive because I am yet to find anything to die for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to the amazing Dorothy L Sayers for being a mindblowingly inspiring author and writing crossover fanfiction way back in the 1920's!


	5. Envy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hatred is active, and envy is passive dislike; there is but one step from envy to hate.” Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

At first you won’t notice it come slithering in; neither of you will. But that’s what happens when you’re young and in love. Everyone tells you that anything is possible, but no one tells you that this sentiment wasn’t actually directed at _you_. It’s hard to tell, when you’re standing so close together, limbs entwined in a dance as old as time, necks and fingers coiled together in a desperate attempt to feign ignorance and ignore the world. They aim their hate and admiration poorly, and it often falls to the wrong ears- rather: both. The light was never shone with the intention of sharing it, but neither of you will have noticed that yet, either.

No, you’ll be too caught up in the self-importance of your romance to take not of the slightly biased shared successes, your sinking hearts and his rising hopes and aspirations. It will come sliding in when you least expect it, on the most perfect of perfect days, when you lie back and wonder just how it might be possible that your life could have taken this unexpected turn and dissolve into a fantasy you’d never have imagined possible. It slithers in, but not like a serpent, more like a network of rivers, creeks and streams. It starts with the smallest of possibilities, flowing slowly but steadily towards the inevitable, joining conclusion that he is somehow better, and once you’ve set sail on that path, let alone several all at once, there’s little chance that you’ll ever be free again.

You don’t see the cracks forming, ever so slowly. You don’t notice the way you check his page just as frequently as yours, but only when his not around. You pretend not to see the way eyes light up in recognition far more when you’re together. And while you’re busy not seeing all of this, which takes some effort, the smiles growing stretched and weary, the kisses falling upon tired lips- for they are your lips and your skin drying out to a parched remains, and by the time you realize it’s all _his_ fault, you’re too far in love to even think about turning back.

And so you step in time behind him, cursing and praising his name with each alternating fall of your feet. The currents are strong and they pull you out deep into an ocean of regret, where every reflective surface shows you and him, as perfectly happy as you both wanted to be, without betraying an inch of the loathing that had begun to settle sometime long ago.

It becomes a gamble, every time you see him, every waking minute and every corner of your dreams. Some days you want nothing less than to see him stone dead on the floor beside you, but other days your arms reach for his shoulders rather than his neck and you press him against the wall, seeking kiss after kiss after desperate kiss, tasting his honeyed lips with thirst which has been boiling away inside you for far too long. You can never get enough, but fortunately he is as ravenous as you are, and you can be lost in each other for days on end, deaf to the world and any thing other than his hot, soft kisses. Some days you walk to the mirror with delight and surprise to see his perfect, beautiful face grinning back at you. You raise a hand to his hair, feeling it’s soft locks slip between your fingers, his elegant cheekbones and angled jaw so real and flawless beneath your probing thumb. The illusion holds for just a moment too long for it to be a dream and for a glorious heartbeat, it’s as real as the raw, red slashes that had covered your skin moments earlier, but much more tangible, much better 

But then he has to come sauntering in, all smiles and eyes beaming as always, and your own reflection is pale and stark by comparison, but it still smiles meekly up at him as he winds a long arm around your shoulders, reeling you in once more, entrapping you in the lure of his warmth. You catch a final, pathetic glance at the mirror, and you realize it was your face staring back at you all along, only with absurd expectations plastered to your eyes and hopeful dye running off your hair, denying you even the memory of that glorious moment.

And it’s funny; it’s so _fucking_ _hilarious_ , because even through all these confusing contortions, you still love him more than anything in the world. That feeling never left, if anything it’s only grown stronger than ever, stronger than his love for you, because you can both feel that his is slipping away, with every step closer that you take. It’s a terrifying game, realizing that each square forward you move, you lose another inch of him, but your devotion only doubles with each pace and the more he slides away, the tighter your hold becomes. Soon fingernails are digging into pale skin, tearing away the surface and searching for even more beneath the muscle below, never satisfied, never satiated.

It's been too long; you don't remember any other way to love him. 

So he’ll head onto the stage, make-up applied smoothly, impeccably and suit cut to perfection, while you curl up on a couch somewhere behind the curtains, unkempt and beautiful, sipping slowly on a swirling mug of self-loathing, as lethal as pure cyanide- you’ll drink it all down and still expect that, somehow, he’ll be the one to fall down choking, a slight sweat breaking out on his forehead beneath the bright lights, pulling off his black tie as his throat swells steadily, constricting his airways and coronary arteries, stealing his life away breath by breath. But, of course, you are wrong again, and the show goes on and on to incessantly obnoxious applause, as you choke bitterly on the rim of your chipped cup, waiting to kiss him in the wings the instant the show is over.


End file.
